A League of Her Own
by Coke Cam
Summary: 17 years after "In the Picture," Jane discovers that her son MJ has a secret he's too scared to share—they're more alike than she had imagined. Can she help him escape the demons that chased her for so many years before Maura came into her life? (Extensive flashbacks-Rizzles Family/Fluff/Happy.) Recommend reading "In the Picture" first (relax, it's short, it won't bite).
1. Chapter 1

You consider the suspect staring back at you, not giving any sign that he's aware of the depth of trouble he's in. You lean back from the table, chair slightly tipped with legs crossed, one arm on your knee. You've been interrogating teenagers like this for decades and you know all their tricks and moves. The only problem is that this one knows all your best moves too because you taught them to him.

Who knew such a good idea like Take Your Kid to Work Day would come back and bite you like this?

You've been planning this confrontation since last night, waiting until Maura left for the morgue because she was just a marshmallow when it came to the boy. Since you transferred to the Governor's major crimes unit five years ago, you have a more flexible schedule for your family, which is how you're spending breakfast with your teenage son who ordinarily moves through the house at the speed of light.

Your last case for BPD had been a closer call than you want to acknowledge—a serial killer who nearly made Frost his final victim—and it made you realize that if the job were a Russian roulette game, then you had loaded nearly all the chambers and were running out of second chances. You couldn't risk that for Maura and MJ, not when there was a better solution. Now you get to lead your own team, crack twice as many cases, you haven't been shot at in at least six months. After he recovered, Frost had come to join you when Korsak retired to run a no-kill shelter in Dorcester and Maura had stayed on at the ME's because, as it turned out, she didn't get threatened, shot at or abducted nearly as much when you weren't around. "It's boring," she said, wrinkling her nose, which made you kiss it and that may have been her plan. She still comes in on consultations for you, and you have a standing lunch date at a certain hotel twice a week where very little food is ordered.

Last night you had set your alarm early, primarily so you could wake Maura up with more than a kiss but also so you could get a full breakfast on the table and trap MJ long enough for this conversation.

"Hey," you say. _Oh, elegant, Rizzoli, very elegant._

MJ looks up from the newspaper, turning a page as he does. He's left you the sports section, knowing you like to scan the box scores over breakfast while he inexplicably reads the lifetime section. You and Maura have argued endlessly about how this could have happened.

_"An interest in baseball is not genetic, Jane."_

_"It should be! It's…the Sox!"_

_"You need to accept him as a unique individual."_

_"He's not a snowflake, Maura."_

_Her hand was on your shoulder, calming you in an instant. "No," she said gently. "He's your son and you love him exactly as he is."_

He looks normal enough on the outside—fashionably distressed jeans and a slate blue Polo that Maura had given him for Christmas. She had gradually taken over dressing you as well and you had given in, so long as she didn't venture too far into the avant-garde. Secretly you still pretend to fight her, just to watch her grow frustrated and tug at whatever unforgivable thing you've chosen, so you can pretend to surrender and let her take it off which leads exactly where you wanted it to all along.

But somehow this seventeen-year-old, who looks so very much like you is at times the most alien thing you have ever tried to talk to. His dark eyes, as thickly lashed as a girl's and which have caused more than a few week knees you suspect, look up coolly at you as he bites one corner off his toast. "What's up?"

"I was looking at the credit card statement and do you know what I found?"

His eyes close and for a moment, just an instant, you think you've cracked him on the first try—_yes, Rizzoli, you still have the touch!_ Then he looks up as he sighs, wistful and sweet, and you know this is just the beginning.

"I told Mom not to put the season tickets on the joint card. It was supposed to be a surprise for you." MJ lowers the toast back to the plate and you notice that it's wheat which means Maura conveniently forgot to buy white bread again this week and the mustard-pastrami sandwich waiting for you in the fridge, bundled in its little Tupperware cozy, will be nearly inedible. "Don't tell her you found out—she was really proud of herself for thinking of it."

Oh, he's a clever one, your boy. MJ may look exactly like you with your strong chin, straight nose, high cheekbones and dark eyes, but somehow through the miracle of gestational osmosis he's brilliant as well—Maura's doing, though she swears it's not possible. All of this was poured into his father's strong athletic frame, undamaged by war, healthy and whole, topped by the Rizzoli hair that nothing could really be done about. For an instant you're proud of him for trying to protect his mother, but you knew about those tickets weeks ago. More to the point, that's not what you're talking about and he damned well knows it.

"No," you say coolly. "But nice try. How about the truth?"

His eyes are steady and unflickering. You wonder how he learned to do this when you were so very bad at lying to your own mother and Maura is, of course, hopeless in this department. It must have been Tommy, the charming BS King with the silver tongue. You'll kill him next, after you buy a loaf of white bread for every room of the house.

"Four Seasons?" you suggest. "Presidential suite? Balcony?"

A crack appears at the corner of his mouth, but MJ catches it quickly. He sits back, looking a little alarmed. "If you guys want to go away, that's cool, but uh, please don't tell me about the room. That's kinda gross."

For a moment you're distracted. Things have been crushingly busy for Maura lately and you haven't had time for yourselves since last summer when MJ went to genius kid camp in upper Vermont for two weeks. It had been peaceful, glorious and your bones had ached every minute he was gone.

"No!" you bark, hand slapping down on the table and your palm warms to the sting. "Let me refresh your memory—April 13th? It's your prom night, or at least it _was_ until you went and booked a hotel room behind my back."

MJ swallows hard, not even realizing that he's starting to talk. "T-they were just supposed to…

"To use the card to hold the room and then you were going to pay cash when you got there?" Because that's exactly what you would have done if you'd had access to a credit card when you were in high school. "And, by the way, if you want to be sneaky about something, don't register under your real name. There may only be five people who know what it is, but I'm one of them."

MJ looks at you in wounded surprise. No one was allowed to call him by his full name except Maura, and then only when she was very, very disappointed in him.

_You stared at the birth certificate in disbelief. There in 14 point Courier type was every protective mother's worst nightmare: Maurice Jonathan Rizzoli _

_"Maura," you said quietly. "Do you remember that part where I said you could pick the name just so long as it wouldn't get him beat up?_

_"You don't like it?" Her eyes had that kicked kitten look that made you want to grab a plastic spoon and shove it into your own spleen. _

_"No, uh, tell me about it," you said hastily as you sat on the hospital bed beside her. MJ—you could call him MJ, that sounded cool. "What does it mean in Swahili?"_

_"It's Latin," she said, sounding a little less wounded. "And generally it's interpreted to mean dark, like his hair."_

_"And it's the male version of Maura?"_

_She sighed. "No, that's a false cognate, but it's nice to think so. It's very significant to me though. E.M. Forster was a famous English novelist who struggled with his identity and he wrote __Maurice__, about a young gentleman who fell in love with a lower class gamekeeper. Maurice had to make a choice between money and society or running away to the countryside to be together in secret."_

_"Where they lived happily ever after?"_

_"Yes," she smiled, "actually, they did, which was revolutionary for the turn of the century. Forster published the book posthumously and when I read it for the first time in school, I wondered what I would ever do if I were faced with that kind of choice. I think in some way it gave me the foundation I needed to understand what I felt for you."_

_"Uh huh." You didn't remember putting your arms around her, but somehow that kept happening every time she came within eighteen inches of you. "And am I the blue collar gamekeeper in this little boarding school fantasy?"_

_"Technically," she whispered to your neck, "it's not a fantasy if it really happened."_

_"And Jonathan?"_

_"A variation of John, the masculine form of Jane; also, a Biblical character whose close friendship with David was said to have been a love that was greater than that of a man for a woman."_

_"The original LLBFFs, huh?" _

_She nodded happily and you wondered yet again how the hell you had gotten so lucky as to find this woman who had decided years in advance that her love for a friend would be greater than any other and worth any sacrifice she had to make._

"OK," MJ quickly bargains. "I should've asked, but, um, it's non-refundable, so maybe you should take Mom instead. You guys have been working a lot of hours and…"

"You're damn right it's non-refundable," you say, plowing past the thought of Maura with champagne and room service, Maura in the jacuzzi, Maura in little pajamas, then Maura _not_ in little pajamas... "Unless twelve years ago you helped solve the murder of one of their laundry maids and proved that the crime didn't occur at the hotel itself, and let me tell you hotels don't forget things like that. The room's cancelled and in about five seconds your prom's gonna be cancelled too if you don't start telling me the truth. MJ, what the hell—you don't even have a date."

Or did he?

Cornered at last, MJ's expression turned mulish and rebellious, another marvelous Rizzoli trait. Maura had gentled him as an infant, loving away most of the crazier family qualities but that had somehow left him more dangerous. It was like facing your own worst enemy in the mirror—yourself, but younger, stronger, and smarter.

"You wouldn't understand," he muttered. "No one does."

Ah, there it is at last—the first line of Teenage Defense. You're too old to possibly comprehend the agony he's going through. Admittedly, MJ isn't your typical teenager, which is one of the things you're proudest of, so this sudden attitude is unexpected. He's beyond bright but never made fun of kids who struggled in school. He even volunteered after school at the special needs education program as part of his service club project. He had been made a starter on the lacrosse team the instant his cleats had hit the turf and won a free ride to BCU next year for it, but he seemed almost embarrassed when other students treated him like the star he was.

And, most puzzling of all, he didn't have a girlfriend. That you knew of.

_"Maura…have you ever seen MJ, y'know, talking to girls?"_

_"Last Sunday, for nearly an hour."_

_"That was my mother."_

_Maura carefully tucked the end of the pillowcase into the opposite side so it made a neat rectangle. "She may have gone through menopause, but she's still female."_

_As if you could have possibly forgotten that four year roller coaster from hell. "I meant teenage girls. Do you think he likes them?"_

_"I don't have any evidence to validate the theory. But," she considered as she smoothed the comforter down, "I haven't heard him say anything to the contrary. That doesn't help, does it?"_

_"No," you gritted. "I mean, do you think he's gay?"_

_Maura's eyes grew round and her head immediately turned to the living room where MJ sat watching television. It was the semi-final of __America's Next Top Model__. No one was making him watch. "I…well, it would be unwise to rely on stereotypical traits and I'm not an impartial judge, but I don't think so. It wouldn't matter of course, but…why, what made you ask?"_

_You took her by the shoulders, careful not to wrinkle the sleeves of her blazer. "He's 16 years old," you said patiently. "It's a moral imperative that he should be trying to impregnate everything with a uterus and why do you look so happy?"_

_"I'm proud of you for using the correct scientific term and not making that cute little squicky face when you did."_

_"Maura, this is our son. I need you to focus for me, honey."_

_She nodded, pressing her lips together and growing very solemn, then pointed at her face. "Focused."_

_ "Just be aware in case you think he's forming an attachment to anyone—girl, guy, doesn't matter. He's a teenager so he thinks he's immortal, and it's our job, so long as he's under our roof, to protect him and to help him and most of all to ground his ass if he steps out of line."_

_18 months later, still no girlfriend. But he had said he was going stag to prom, had asked Maura to help him get fitted for a tux and now there was a hotel room…_

You push your chair back and move around the table to sit next in the chair closest to MJ, resting your elbows on knees. You've shown him tough, the last vestiges of your Bad Cop, and now without Maura here you have to play the other side as well.

"C'mon, I get it—you're going with your friends from the team who don't have dates either because you don't want to miss out. Did you want to impress them by getting a room for an after party? Someone's bringing booze, dirty videos, have a guy's night?"

MJ shifts uncomfortably in his chair, eyebrows dangerously lowered. "I said I was sorry, let's just forget about it."

"Uh, no. Doesn't work like that. I know you think I don't understand, but as gross as it must seem, I've been there." From the expression on his face, it was in fact unbelievably gross. "Just try me."

"I already tried Mom," he says morosely.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, a genuine laugh, not the dismissive one meant to rattle suspects. You love your wife, God how you love her with the kind of desperation that addicts must feel, but even you knew better than to go to her for this kind of advice. To your dismay, MJ doesn't react but shrugs his lean shoulders. "Y-you're serious…OK, what'd you ask her?"

He's running his thumbnail along the joint in the breakfast table where it pulls apart to insert more leaves for Sunday dinner. You really should break down and just get a bigger table given the way Frankie's wife keeps popping them out two at a time, but it's tradition to press in together, shoulder to shoulder after all these years, and one leg has little gnaw marks from when Bass very politely expressed his outrage over being given sub-standard strawberries. You can't bring yourself to get rid of it, like ripping a page out of this beautiful history.

"I asked…" Something coils in MJ's face and you know if he can just get past the next few words then he'll be able to breathe again. "I asked her how she knew she was in love. With you."

That wasn't remotely what you expected to hear and it must show on your face, so thank God he's looking down again. A teenage boy using the L word? Oh Jesus.

"What'd she say?"

"She said you make her fall asleep."

Although your wife has said some fairly odd things in the quarter century you've known her, this one just might take the prize. You sift through all the mental index cards you've created over the years to try to understand Maura, which is something of a losing battle but one you blissfully fight each day, and there, in the very back of the file, you find the memory…

_The nurse had just come to take your newborn son back to the nursery and you were lying next to Maura in the hospital bed, watching her sleep and not knowing that would be one of the last nights of uninterrupted sleep either of you would have for months. Her hands were curled just under her chin, fingers twined together as if she needed to hold onto herself to believe all this had come true. The ring you had just given her, along with your heart, was glistening on her left hand._

_Without any consent from you, your index finger traced the bridge of Maura's nose from the spot just between her eyebrows down to the tip. There was no logical explanation for why your heart should start doing its best impression of Mt. St. Helens, but you stopped just to be safe. The last thing anyone needed was for you to be admitted to the hospital for cardiac trauma._

_Without moving an inch of the rest of her, Maura's lips whispered, "Are you real?"_

_"Yes," you whispered back. _

_"Because if you're a dream, then I don't want to wake up."_

_"No," you managed. "You're the dream." You pressed your lips to her forehead, felt her let out a small breath and then nestle into you. "Go back to sleep—I'll still be here when you wake up." Maybe in the morning she'll tell you the name she's picked out for your son, but for now she's simply smiled mysteriously and said that it was a secret._

_"Hmm. I can sleep with you."_

_The words are both electrifying and puzzling. You've never doubted Maura's interest in physical relationships, but it seems an odd time to bring it up when you're wedged into a hospital bed mere feet from the nurse's station. Secretly, you're a little more old-fashioned than you want to admit and you've spent much of the night thinking about what should happen next. Maura has been aware of her feelings for years now but you, Jane Rizzoli, are ever late to the party. Under the circumstances, anything more than cuddling seems almost disrespectful to the mother of your child. There should be courting and things that mattered to Maura like long walks, unpronounceable entrees, imported chocolate... You raised your head and assured yourself that the four bedraggled roses you had brought her, all you could afford after you'd bought her ring, were still clinging to life in the water glass vase you had rigged on the bedside table._

_"Don't take this the wrong way," you said, "but I kinda had somewhere in mind that didn't look like the inside of the Borg mothership."_

_Maura let out a half exhausted giggle at that. When she had reached her eighth month and brunching and shopping were no longer comfortable options for a Saturday, you had set up her living room like a private movie theater, running all over Boston to rent the most obscure foreign films and stopping at every boutique food store to satisfy her cravings for imported kalamata olives, manchego cheese and quail eggs. One night after a particularly hard interrogation you had flatly refused to watch any more Polish documentaries with subtitles and had arrived with a handful of Star Trek videos, a six pack for yourself and giant box of cheese straws for her. She had looked uncertain but willing to try anything to make you happy, which was the essence of Maura. She had found herself fascinated by the Trek uber-villian, happily burbling away about the trope of the de-humanization of technology and devouring the entire box of cheese straws in a single sitting. You didn't really follow her explication, but when the baby started to kick and she let you lie down with your head in her lap so you could feel him move, you knew you had never been happier in your entire life._

_Until now._

_"That's not what I meant." Maura was blinking up at you and your heart was doing that Mt. St. Helens thing again. "I have trouble sleeping when someone else is with me, but it's not like that with you."_

_"You just ran a nine month marathon," you reminded her. "You'd be able to sleep in the middle of the highway."_

_Maura closed her eyes as she smiled and didn't seem able to open them again. "I'm serious," she sighed. "That's why I never had sleepovers with other girls when I was little—all I could do was lie in the dark and worry that they weren't happy, or that they only came because my mother called their mothers, or that they wanted something for dinner besides duck confit and roast asparagus."_

_"You're sure your reptile collection didn't have anything to do with it?" you teased._

_Her mouth pursed, thinking, and she shook her head. "No, I kept the aquariums in the south-facing conservatory."_

_You didn't think it was possible to be even more in love than you already were, but you were beginning to suspect that there were no limits on infinity. Maura's hands had uncurled now, tentatively reaching for yours and instantly you folded them inside yours, kissing her knuckles and lingering on the ring._

_ "I think that's why I never lived with anyone," she said haltingly. "Or stayed the night if I could help it. I simply can't sleep with anyone else next to me, so when Hoyt came back, the night you stayed over for the first time, I thought it would be easy to keep watch since I wouldn't be able to fall asleep…but I did. I thought it was just a random anomaly brought on by stress, but I felt different too, so peaceful even though I should've been terrified. Something in my amygdala knew that you would protect me, so I…" Her hand turned palm up, then flopped sleepily to one side. "I thought you were a fluke."_

_You tried to contain a chuckle at that. "Not the first time someone's thought that."_

_"When it kept happening, I started to s'spect I was in love with you, because you were the only person I ever felt safe enough to fall…'sleep with." Her voice has trailed off in drowsy frustration. "I didn't mean to end… wi' preposition."_

_ You stopped fighting the urge to brush your thumb behind her ear, gently rubbing away the stress. "I won't tell. And I do want to sleep with you, Maura Isles, and I want to not-sleep with you too, just not while my mother is out prowling the hospital corridor, OK?"_

_There was no response beyond a quiet sigh—Maura was asleep._

_No one else had ever seen her this way before, so vulnerable and beautiful, and no one ever would again._

_No one but you._


	2. Chapter 2

This gets just a little bit M-ish at the end. Maybe PG-13ish. But not enough to make you close your eyes. Honest.

* * *

Calmly, carefully, you compose yourself. "You know how your Mom gets a little mixed up sometimes, MJ."

He nods solemnly. It was their job to protect her, to make sure no one took advantage of her, and if they did they would feel the wrath of the Rizzolis.

"What she meant was that she trusts me enough to let her guard down. Trust is a really important part of a relationship, especially when one of you has a gun."

That made him glance at you sidelong, the line of his white teeth showing in a hesitant smile. "Yeah, I figured it made sense somewhere in there."

"You need help with your homework," you say with ruthless practicality, "ask your Mom. Anything else, check with me first, OK?"

You see hesitation flash across his face and you want to reach out before he can shy away again, but he's inherited some of your wariness. Any sudden movement would only spook him. You wait, patiently, and that's all the nudge it takes.

"OK—so…I know you guys were BFFs and all before my dad died, but…when did you know? That you loved Mom?"

It's odd, you think, that such a reasonable question has never come up before. You've never hidden anything from MJ about his family, not your father's infidelity or Tommy's checkered past. He knows who his father is and you visit Casey's grave and every Memorial Day. He sees all his grandparents, from Constance, Hope and Angela to Casey's parents and back again, but somehow he's never asked you this before. Perhaps your love for Maura is so solid and self-evident that it seemed to exist without a beginning middle or end. You knew the answer of course, right down to the second, but the real mystery was how you had missed such an obvious truth in the first place.

_You sat in the front seat of your unmarked car, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel at the stoplight five blocks away from the hospital where Maura Isles had just given birth to your child—the one your own body couldn't be trusted to carry to term—and not only did you arrive late and miss the birth entirely, you missed the boat as well, and it wasn't just any boat: it was the Titanic of relationship boats._

_Even though you were a damn fine detective, you always suspected you were a complete idiot when it came to your personal life, and now you had proof. Your best friend was wholly and utterly in love with you—risk her life to keep you from ending yours, sacrifice a full year to give you your dream of a family, get stretch marks on that perfect body, endure swollen feet, cramping and labor, and never complain once (except for that incident with the Jimmy Choos because at seven months, even Maura Isles was a bit much). _

_And you completely missed it._

_You had been so focused, head down, blinders on after all you'd lost that you never noticed Maura standing right in front of you. It had only been when you pushed back the hospital room door and heard her talking to the baby, telling him how much she loved you and how she was prepared to wait in silence for the rest of her life just to be some small part of your lives, that the light dawned like a giant supernova._

_And with that understanding came the crushing shame of all you'd put her through, and with shame came panic which was followed by the overwhelming urge to flee, and that at least you knew how to do._

_A car horn sounded behind you and from the force of it, you could tell it wasn't the first time it had been blown. You tore open your car door and were at the Chevy's window in three long strides, your blazer hooked back around the piece on your hip. The driver was stammering and apologizing even before you rapped on the glass with your badge. You didn't do anything to him—even you weren't going to screw up that much today—but the way he panicked made you feel a tiny bit better, even if it was for all the wrong reasons._

_Back in the car, you continued in a straight, sightless line down the street. You knew you should peel a U-turn and rush straight back to the hospital, but you couldn't breathe and that was a problem. You were going to need a lot of oxygen to apologize and you were fairly certain you were going to need words too, and those were completely beyond you at the moment._

_You found yourself at your new house, the one you had bought to hold and protect your son—a place that Hoyt has never touched, where Dean, Grant, or anyone else in the long confusing string of missteps has ever been. Somehow you were standing in the foyer with no idea how you got inside without tripping over four things along the way. You started to drop your keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter when you noticed the hook by the door, the one that Maura had brought over as a housewarming gift. It was heavy brass, nicely made, and somewhat abstract but only now, for the first time, you saw that it was clearly meant to represent a heart._

_Of course. _

_Your hands were cold and shaking as you laced them together behind your neck. You wracked your brain for any clue as to when this started, how you had fooled such a kind, generous, usually brilliant woman into thinking that you were worth loving. A flood of memories came cascading through you, hitting your body like a fire hose._

_Maura at your wedding, how she'd kissed your cheek and wiped away what you had assumed were her tears of happiness. How she waited with you to identify Casey's body and then taken your shoulders, asking so gently if there was any chance you were pregnant, then staying with you as the miscarriage took hold and never leaving your side, even when you sobbed for her to go. _

_Maura at the doctor's office, listening quietly and never once telling you to be reasonable or that you were too grief stricken to be making decisions about something like having a child on your own. Her smile, warm and comforting, when the doctor said you would never carry to term, telling you everything would be fine—she would do it; she would be the surrogate; she would take everything on herself, just for you._

_Maura fixing your collar with deft fingers, making sure your favorite orange juice (no pulp) was always in the fridge, setting the DVR to record your games even when she had to delete __Project Runway__ to make room, never complaining when Jo Friday barked at Bass or even the time you forgot to walk her and she actually peed on Maura in the bed, and if that wasn't true love, she had just spent eleven hours and seventeen minutes in labor to give you the baby you couldn't give yourself._

_Exactly how blind could you be, Rizzoli?_

_You felt the full weight of your situation crashing down on you, realizing just how much of it you had put on Maura in the last year. She had been the surrogate in more ways than one. The cumulative physical, mental and emotional exhaustion caught you behind the knees and you sank into the rocking chair you had bought for the nursery. You let your eyes close and the room blur around you. The light green of the walls and the golden brown trim swirled together, blending into the most beautiful light hazel, the exact color of Maura's eyes, and..._

_You snapped back upright, half out of the rocker before you knew what happened. You remembered—yes, __now__ you remembered—standing in the paint aisle at Home Depot and how you had deliberately put back the cerulean blue that Maura had been lobbying for. Something had kept pulling you back to the greens and, just for an instant, the real reason slipped through all the walls you had built up. You had held the little swatch cards while listening to the agitator mixing the gallons for the nursery walls and you thought wouldn't it be nice for the baby see his mother's eyes watching over him. You had felt an unaccountable sense of peace come over you and wistfully you allowed yourself to wish that you could just carry on for the rest of your life like you had for the pregnancy, spending all your time with Maura, talking about the future, like the little herd of elephants she kept telling you about, raising the baby together. _

_To be together, like you were…married._

_"Jesus, Jane," you whispered. "You fucking moron." _

_Some part of you had always known you loved her, buried deep down below the grief and depression, and despite everything you had done Maura wanted you too. You certainly didn't deserve her, anyone could see that, but if she wanted you, if she really, really wanted you enough to go through everything she had, then...well, if someone handed you the winning lottery ticket, would you toss it in the trash because you didn't feel lucky?_

_No, lucky was finding a good parking spot or $20 in your winter jacket. Lucky was a hot streak at Atlantic City. Dr. Maura Isles wasn't lucky—she was the Powerball with the mega number._

_The energy of three dozen Red Bulls shot through your veins as you ran back to your car and slapped the bubblegum light on top. There was still time to make it to Succarra and corner the salesman Maura had talked to last Christmas for nearly an hour about a diamond pendant while you sighed loudly and checked the Celtics game on your phone. If anyone could guess what she would want, it would be him._

_There was going to be a ring and roses and you down on both knees and anything else she wanted for the rest of her life, starting tonight._

"And, uh," you say lamely, "that's how I knew I loved your mother."

MJ is staring at you, dark eyes wide in disbelief. "Paint swatches? Really?"

"No one said you got your brains from me, bud." You rap out a familiar beat with your knuckles on the table—shave and a haircut, six bits. "That was pretty much all she wrote."

"So is it true what they say about, y'know, women on the second date? U-hauls?"

You've always resisted labels or stereotypes of any kind and you had never wanted to tag your marriage with any baggage either. You love Maura; she loves you; end of story. You barely have time to socialize outside of your own family and your work partners, who are as close as blood, so you wonder who had told him that old joke. Thankfully for MJ's sake, most of those battles had already been fought before he was old enough to be told that your family was in any way different.

"We've always been honest with you, MJ. You know I was married before your Mom, and when your dad died and I lost the baby, your little sister…things were really bad," you say quietly. "Your Mom stuck with me even though I was half out of my mind."

Yes, you've been honest with him but you've never told him the whole truth either. No one but Maura knew what had nearly happened that night when you had locked yourself in the bathroom with your service piece. You were lost, blundering, walking into walls, blind to everything but the screaming pain, and for a single desperately stupid moment you thought that there was only one way to make it go away. You had forgotten that your best friend might not be able to shoot a gun but she knew everything about yours, and she certainly knew how to unload the clip when you weren't looking.

Maura also knew how to pick the lock on the bathroom door so she could slip inside and put her arms around you, pulling you to herself and held the shattering pieces in her hands. It was like being tied to a life buoy and no matter how much you tried to let go and slip beneath the water, Maura kept tugging you back up, bobbing, spitting and cursing, but alive.

At some point in those dark hours on the bathroom floor, listening to her breathe, you realized that there was at least one person left who loved you and who didn't have to for the sake of family. Maura had said that if you died she would know what you felt, and you simply couldn't put her through that pain—no one should ever suffer like that.

"So yes, we got married kinda quickly," you admit, "but we'd already been friends for so long it was like…" _Realizing you could just stop running because you were already home_. "Like we already were."

_Neither of you had been able to take your eyes off MJ long enough to talk about setting a date, but one week after you brought him home the Boston Marathon bombing changed everything. When you were finally released from manhunt duty, starved and aching in a way you had never imagined possible for the sight of your family, you had arrived with the department's notary public unceremoniously stuffed in the back of a squad car. You insisted on marrying Maura right there in the living room, with Korsak and Frost as witnesses, your mother in her pajamas, Maura beaming with MJ in her arms, Frankie asleep on his feet, and Tommy pouring drinks all around. It had taken you long enough to come to your senses and you weren't going to let another second go by in this crazy, insane world without Maura beside you, where she belonged._

_And so your life which had lain in a crumpled bloody heap just one year before had been restored to something even more than it ever could have been. Except, that was, for the tiny little detail of actually getting to spend an uninterrupted night alone with your wife. The problem wasn't desire or intention, it was the 7 pound, 8 ounce football that had attached himself to Maura during all your waking hours, and most of the rest of them too. MJ was getting to cuddle up to her and do all the things you wanted to, and in public no less. When he wasn't doing that, he was screaming his head off at a pitch that opened garage doors up and down the block. You hadn't thought it was possible to drive the thought of sex utterly out of your brain, but your son had superpowers the X-Men had never dreamed of._

_After a solid week of colic-induced insomnia, you came home to find Maura sitting on the floor outside her guest room which had been converted to a nursery until the new house was ready. She was crying and clutching the baby monitor. You instantly went into cop mode, trying to determine if there had been a kidnapping or at least a severed limb, but Maura shook her head to every question. You gave up finally, at least until you could get a few more vowels and consonants out of her. Sliding down to the floor, you draped your lanky frame around her and pulled her exhausted body to you. Everything felt better, instantly, like the feeling you got when you found the last jigsaw piece sitting under a stack of magazines in the other room and clicked it into place._

_"He's sleeping," she managed to choke out, but wasn't that a good thing? Wasn't that why Angela had lit three dozen candles down at the church, praying for angels to come and sing over this kid so you could get some sleep? Frankly, you wouldn't care if she'd been out back sacrificing goats—at least something had worked._

_Maura finally untucked her arms to show you what she was hugging to her heart. You recognized your pocket notebook, the one you had missed when you went to take interview notes that morning, although the real miracle was that you hadn't left your badge, gun and brain behind as well. Maura had used it to jot down a phone number and found your name and call code on the inside cover, and then more writing in a different color ink, a long matrix of names in endless variation._

_Det. Jane Rizzoli-Isles_

_Dr. Maura Rizzoli_

_Dr. and Det. Isles-Rizzoli_

_Jane and Maura Rizzles (?)_

_and on the list went until finally_

_Mrs. Jane Isles_

_"Oh." You felt sheepish and tried to take the notebook from Maura, which made her cry even harder as she clung to the edge of the cover, making it clear that you weren't getting it away from her without a warrant and the SWAT Team. You confessed that you were just following the principles she had explained, to try every possibility thoroughly before rejecting any as impossible. "So, um, did you see anything you like?"_

_Maura's face took on the adorably goofy look it did whenever something delighted her. "Your name next to mine." Somehow she managed to crawl into your lap before she fell into an exhausted sleep and you realized that you wouldn't be able to move even if the house caught fire, so you sat and prayed that MJ would stay down until, finally, you nodded off yourself._

_You never did get your notebook back._

"We would've gotten married before long anyway," you assure MJ, "but when you're in my line of work and you see people losing each other without warning, it makes you realize what's really important. I needed your Mom to know that she could trust me to be there for her and that she could count on me after she risked so much to have you. It took me a while to put the pieces together, but it was worth every second we waited."

Something about that hits MJ oddly and he lets out a nervous snicker.

"You think that's funny?"

He gives a quick shake of his head, but the smug expression remains. "Just the idea of you guys waiting. Sorry."

You don't think he looks sorry at all. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He gets the chuckling under control and then hems and haws, as if he can't believe he has to way this out loud. "Waiting implies that—c'mon, you guys are like rabbits."

"Excuse me?" Your voice has gone up, more shocked than offended. It's not that he's wrong, but this isn't something you expect to hear coming out of your teenager's mouth. Now that he's started though, the words are pouring out.

"I'm not dumb. You take more 'naps' than a narcoleptic."

Somehow you've lost your tactical advantage and you're shuffling for solid footing. "Your mother has very unusual, um, Cartesian rhythms."

"Circadian."

"Those too. Yes. And I, um, have to help monitor her sleep." This is not entirely untrue, except for the sleeping part.

"Uh huh," MJ deadpans. "And the showers?"

"There are, uh, studies about the environmental impact and the energy benefit of, uh, sharing..." You wince and break off. "Y'know, it's none of your business."

"Yeah, except it's hard as hell to get a hot shower around here."

"Good," you snap. "Cold showers might be what you need right now, and I know something about that too. As unbelievable as it sounds, your mother and I waited until we were married."

"Bullshit," MJ blurts. "I call bullshit!" Not for the first time you wonder what you did to piss off your DNA so badly that it all crawled over into him.

"It's your right to disagree," you say tightly, "but you will not use that word where your mother is concerned."

"Sorry, Ma." He looks genuinely contrite and you know it's not an act. He's as devoted to his mother as you are and just as protective. When he had overheard Roger Hemsworth in the locker room referring to Maura as a MILF, among other things, he had decked the midfielder and given him a set of black eyes that would make a raccoon jealous. When the school resource officer had called you to pick up MJ, you had been torn. Maura did, in fact, meet the definition perfectly, and as the one who got to do just that every day (sometimes twice), you couldn't really disagree. You suspected that half of MJ's teammates gave themselves injuries on purpose just so Dr. Isles would open up her Berkin bag on the sidelines and start tending their war wounds. Still, you didn't protest the two day suspension—fighting was fighting, and Hemsworth had gotten a full week plus being cut from the team—and you took your son to New York instead to watch the Sox sweep the Yankees in a three game homestand. You remember how proud you were of the man he was becoming, that he would stand up for a woman, take the consequences, and not be ashamed to be seen hugging his Ma on the Jumbotron.

So how in the hell did you get from there to here, sitting across from each other at the breakfast table, each of you so stiff and awkward you might break? But if he didn't believe that you were telling him the truth about this, then he wouldn't listen to anything else you said and you needed him to believe you, that you only wanted what was best for him and he needed to trust you.

You had one ace up your sleeve and now was the time.

"If you don't believe me, then you can ask your mother."

All the fight instantly drained from MJ's face. If you were confident enough to send him to the one person who would always tell him the truth, no matter how embarrassing, and risk anything else she might innocently reveal about that night, then you _must_ be telling the truth. You thought his shocked expression must look like you had the night he was born when the realization of Maura's feelings had hit you like a two-by-four.

Slowly MJ straightens in his chair, his whole body on point, and you can see that he's seized on something. It's the same look you get when you've spotted the critical flaw in the suspect's alibi and that realization makes you start to breathe just a bit faster.

"Yeah, but exactly how _long_ did you have to wait?"

The longest twenty seven days of your life.

_Gathering up the shreds of your pride, you had done the one thing you had sworn as a teenager you never would—you went to your mother for help. When you casually presented the offer to babysit her grandson for the night, Angela had put down the rolling pin, one hand on hip. _

_"Let me get this straight," she said in that wonderfully rasping drawl. "First, you have a baby together. Then you decide to get married. Then you move in together. And now you think you're ready for intercourse?"_

_You had sputtered, flailed and protested, then finally collapsed with a frustrated whine. "Ma," you begged, "do you know how hard it is to finally have everything you didn't know you wanted…but you can't do anything about it?"_

_It wasn't that you hadn't done anything at all, but not nearly enough. You had followed up on that spectacular first kiss with more of the same, then slept in the same bed but not on opposite sides for once, tangled and exhausted. You held hands, a little surreptitiously at first, letting everyone get used to the idea and yourselves most of all. You had almost gotten to second base Sunday morning before MJ had erupted like a fire alarm with a failing battery. To compensate, you had taken the long way home from the grocery store last night with the back seat full of diapers (you were still arguing about disposable versus cloth) just so you could kiss Maura senseless at every stoplight. It wasn't that either of you were embarrassed, but you knew you needed to be careful. You were coming out of a severe depression; Maura had just given birth and was experiencing a spectrum of emotions she had never suspected existed; doing this might be the emotional equivalent of detonating a suitcase nuke—overwhelming, devastating, no going back. MJ's welfare had to come first. On the other hand, if his mothers were arrested for public indecency while they made out in the baby food aisle at Trader Joe's, who was going to raise him?_

_Once your mother agreed to babysit, and you weren't certain she understood she would have to give him back, you were faced with the paralyzing realization that there was nothing standing between you and the perfect woman except the fact that you had no idea what you were doing. For the first time in your life you began to think carefully, and then you couldn't stop thinking of everything you didn't know, except you didn't know what you didn't know and how were you supposed to know that?_

_Maura pre-empted your spiraling loop of self-destruction by handing over your phone which you had left out on the kitchen counter. "Chapter 17 looks interesting," she said casually. _

_You looked at the screen in confusion, then felt your stomach drop as you realized you had left your browser up, including all your online research about exactly how this was supposed to work, which had culminated in bookmarking "Doctors after Dark" (and its equally steamy and poorly edited sequel, "Detective by Day"). Gracious as always, Maura pretended to be very concerned about a spot on the stove hood while you furiously cleared your browser history._

_"So," you mumbled, "Ma can take MJ on Friday. I was thinking, maybe if you're not too tired, you would like to…?"_

_Maura had been diligent in trying to lose the baby weight at a reasonable rate, but it still felt like a baby rhinoceros had slammed into you as she flew across the kitchen and pinned you to the refrigerator with the force of her acceptance._

_The next night, you had opened the front door of the new house, which you had been moving into at the rate of approximately a box a week, and your heart sank as you turned on the lights and saw the cyclonic mess that was the living room. Quickly you diverted Maura to the kitchen which you had stocked with every exotic snack she had ever mentioned in passing—aged Brie, cracked pepper water crackers, D'anjou pears, Belgian chocolate. On the counter you had set out a vase with four roses, in memory of the ones you could barely afford that first night, two wine glasses and a bottle of something that made that '94 Chateau look like Two Buck Chuck._

_While Maura poured the wine and created a snack plate that looked more like a trip to the all-you-can-eat buffet (the pregnancy craving hormone having decided to stick around for a while), you ducked into the nursery to call Frankie and read him the riot act for not following through on the one thing you'd asked for help with. When the call went to voicemail, you began to suspect that his new undercover assignment had kept him from coming by as promised and you couldn't exactly be angry at your little brother for making the family proud._

_You walked back to the kitchen, preparing to explain why there was a mattress lying on the living room floor with the frame and headboard in pieces instead of assembled and waiting in the bedroom, dressed in the Egyptian cotton sheets Angela had bought you as a wedding present. In your daydreams, you had led Maura to the bedroom and delivered a touching speech about why you had brought a new bed and how this one had no history and that no one had ever slept there before. It would be a clean slate for you both, a place to begin your life together. _

_It would have been a much better speech if there had been an actual bed to go with it._

_As you'd feared, Maura was staring down at the bare mattress, her shoulders shaking with emotion. Everything made her cry these days, even fabric softener commercials. You slipped your arms around her, coaxing her to turn her face up so you can apologize and beg her not to be sad, to say that you can fix this with a socket wrench, some cursing and a couple hours. You knew you should've booked a nice hotel or maybe a bed and breakfast, but you'd thought she would like coming to her new home instead, and maybe that would've been nice if it hadn't looked like a youth hostel. _

_You were prepared for her red-rimmed eyes as she turned to you, as much from lack of sleep as tears, but not to discover that she had actually been laughing or for her to launch herself up on tiptoe, arms locked around your neck._

_"It's perfect," she repeated over and over as your eyes darted around the room. You had no idea what you had done, but if she would just tell you then you would do it again every day for the rest of your life. "How did you know?"_

_"Oh…the gumshoe thing," you said weakly. "You, uh, like it?" Furiously you searched her face for any clue as to what 'it' was._

_Maura's smile lit the entire room. "That was the night I knew I wanted to marry you, when we brought the mattress to your apartment and we laid down and you told me about your fantasy of getting married at Fenway Park in a Red Sox jersey."_

_You put on your best bashful smile, tracing little patterns in the carpeting with the tip of your boot and shrugging as if it was no big deal. Later you would extract a vow from Frankie to never, ever admit he was supposed to have assembled the bed. "It was pretty special," you said modestly._

_Maura nodded, wide-eyed. "I remembered that I had seen the most exquisite evening gown with a mermaid train at Bergdorf Goodman in that exact shade of Red Sox red and I thought what a shame it was that you would refuse to even try it on. So," she smiled, "I decided that I would be the one wearing it, and I didn't want to be just a bridesmaid."_

_Your mind spun, trying to imagine what that would look like—you were fairly certain you knew what a mermaid train was and you sure as hell knew all about Red Sox red, so if Maura was in the picture, then it would be beautiful._

_Her expression turned worried then, the edge of her bottom lip caught in her teeth as she debated. You furrowed your eyebrows, asking with your eyes alone for her to trust you. _

_"Sometimes I wonder," she admitted, "how things might have been different if I had been more confident that night. If I had kissed you the way I wanted to."_

_You were shaking your head, already telling her not to second guess herself, and she put her fingers to your lips, silencing you instantly._

_"No, I don't regret anything except that you suffered so much. Everything happened for a reason to lead us here, and you wouldn't have MJ otherwise."_

_"We," you said fiercely. "He's ours and you're mine."_

_A slight flush rose in Maura's face and you realized how possessive your words sounded but you refused to take back the truth. "Well, thank you," she said unsteadily. "I don't know how you knew, but it's like you turned back time to that night. All you need is a tank top," she laughed._

_Thanking the Wardrobe Gods for your last minute choice that morning, you slipped out of your blazer and let it drop over the arm of the couch, then slowly unbuttoned your shirt, feeling unexpectedly shy, to reveal a white tank top. Maura let out a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a moan, and while it was the coldest spring for Boston in nearly 60 years, you knew that her shivers were from something else entirely. _

_But just in case, you ducked across the room to show off the fireplace, the one thing that was working as planned. The flames sprang up immediately as you turned on the gas and you dimmed the overhead lights, which even you knew would be romantic. When you turned around, Maura was busily pulling every pillow and blanket off the couch to create a nest on the mattress. When she seemed settled, you kicked off your boots and slid over to join her. She nestled against your chest, your legs stretched out to either side, cradling her in the way they had coached you to in class._

_"Hey…" you said with dawning suspicion. "Were you just using Lamaze as an excuse to cuddle?"_

_Maura calmly reminded you that she had elected to have natural child birth for a host of reasons which the instructor had covered in the first two sessions, and she would have been happy to review them with you during the eleven hours and seventeen minutes she had spent in labor, except you had managed to get yourself stuck in a hostage situation just as her water broke. (You had a feeling that this would be coming up periodically for the rest of your married life.)_

_"But," Maura admitted, "I certainly wasn't disappointed whenever we had to practice together. I suppose it was a little masochistic, but I was looking forward to having one last excuse to ask you to hold me."_

_You had ideas of your own about that, starting with spending eleven hours and seventeen minutes doing something that would feel much better than childbirth. Your hands were teasing out the knot Maura had managed to get in her neck when she fell asleep while nursing MJ and she admitted somewhat fuzzily that she might not have needed every single foot rub you had offered during pregnancy. Lazily, you basked together in the fire with Maura curled against you under the blanket, the wine you shared adding a pleasant thrum to your veins which was gradually overshadowed by the blood rising to your face as you slipped further and further into each other. Kisses lingered, conversation dwindled, and Maura's head tilted back to rest against your shoulder, her neck exposed. As you accepted the invitation, nuzzling one ear and then down the line of her throat, your stomach dropped to your knees as you discovered unexpected tears on her cheek._

_"Baby?" It was something that Det. Jane Rizzoli never would have said before, so ridiculous and sentimental, but now that you had a child of your own nothing less would capture how much you loved her. "Did…did you want to wait? You know, we don't have to do anything just because we're alone. It's OK, I know it's been hard with MJ never sleeping and everything happening so fast. I should've asked, but…"_

_You were rambling in panic and hastily swallowed disappointment until Maura arched up to kiss you in a way that clarified absolutely everything, maybe even quantum mechanics, and let you know that nothing in the world could be more wrong than this particular line of thinking._

_ "All I ever wanted was for you to be happy again," she whispered, stroking your face. "I just never thought it would be with me."_

_The knowledge that all this woman wanted was your happiness rendered you utterly speechless, not that you had been very good with words to begin with, and so you decided not to use any at all. Your hands had crept within the blanket now, slipping underneath clothes as Maura sank further into your arms. Her curious whimpers turned to soft cries, higher and then higher still, your name lost in a stammering gasp, as you gently coaxed her to a sweet shuddering climax that left her mute and trembling in your arms. One bare heel fluttered weakly against the mattress as her wondering face turned up to yours and her eyelids struggled to remain open. _

_Tenderly you stroked her hair back, pressing your lips to her temple, whispering that she could sleep now, which honestly was the most exciting thing anyone had said to either of you in a month. Your body curled protectively around hers, forever settling the matter of who the big spoon was going to be here, and a feeling of pride and satisfaction that was nearly primal came over you as you slipped into sleep together._

_Three hours later, you slowly swam up out of a beautiful dark place and into the firelight. Your eyes gradually adjusted and focused on the silhouetted form sitting at the foot of the mattress, watching you solemnly. You weren't accustomed to your new life yet and there was a second's delay before you remembered this will be Maura and you had the right to ask for her, to call her name and that she will answer you every time._

_Uncoiling herself with deliberate grace, your wife began to move towards you, crawling up the length of your body as it stretched across your marriage bed. Her smile was coy, promising, and your breath hitched as you realized that while you slept she had been into that sleek Louis Vuitton overnight case and changed into a very familiar t-shirt, the one that mysteriously went missing two days ago. Property of Boston Police Department was now blazoned across her body as she moved towards you on all fours. You should have been falling into her eyes, but all you could do was stare, mouth half-parted, at the words "Property of" stretched tautly across her chest._

_The last coherent thought your brain formed that night was, "Mine...all mine."_

_Maura came to sit astride your hips, smiling down at you in a way that was both reassuring and terrifying. In a single fluid motion, she took the hem of the shirt, pulling it off over her head. Your brain completely ceased to function as you stared up at your wife illuminated in the firelight, wearing nothing but a wedding ring._

_She took your hand in hers, turning it palm up. For an instant you thought she was going to say something about your scars and you braced yourself to have that history laid bare once more, but instead Maura kissed your palm and lightly traced it with the tip of one finger. The top of your head slowly began to disintegrate._

_"That's your lifeline," she murmured, then brought her own hand to match yours, sealing them together. "And mine." She kissed the tips of your fingers as they templed together, then slipped her fingers to interlock with yours. "Us."_

_The room had begun to gently spin and you couldn't tell where you began or ended apart from her. "You don't know how long I've waited for this," she whispered. "How many times I've imagined it and everything I want to do. Indulge me?" _

_Dumbly, you nodded. It's barely been a month since you realized your own feelings and that had felt like a small eternity; her patience and devotion utterly overwhelm you. _

_"Hold on." She squeezed your hands together in a pulse that echoed your pounding heart. "Don't let go."_

_You will never let go of this woman, not even in death._

_Never let her go._

_Never_

_You struggled to commit each second to memory, but her touch washed away every thought but her. Now whenever you think of your wedding night, you simply know that it was everything that Maura is: loving, adventurous, unselfish, warm, healing, beautiful…_

_Amazing._


	3. Chapter 3

"Ma?"

Your son's voice pulls you back to the present and you look up, struggling to focus and bring yourself back to this conversation, this very serious matter that you wish you could simply sweep under the rug. You clear your throat and upend your coffee mug only to find that it's empty and you're simply sucking air, trying to think of what to say next.

It hadn't been intentional exactly, but in the end you were glad that you'd had so many years together as friends first, to build your foundation, and you were even glad for that dark year of grief and loss when Maura had patiently loved you back to life, sacrificing herself to give you this gift that sits across from you now.

"A month," you say. "That's how long it took to convince you to stay asleep long enough to let us sneak off for the night."

MJ looks stung, his hands splayed out, palm up. "How was that my fault?"

"Look in the dictionary under colic and you'll see your baby picture. My God, the neighbors thought we were murdering you."

"There's no definitive evidence for the cause of colic. It's possible that indigestion, allergies or lactose intolerance play a role, but it's never been proven."

"Thank you, Dr. Rizzoli." This too he gets from his mother, the nervous recitation of scientific facts to substitute for the words he can't bring himself to say. "What I'm saying is that it isn't hypocritical for me to say that there can be things worth taking your time about. It's never wrong to be in love and to want to be with someone, but there are some decisions I've made…" Your tongue feels awkward and unwieldy. "…that if I'd known myself better, maybe I would do over. It's worth being sure, with someone really special. So because I love you, I have to ask, is there someone? You got a hotel room and I'm thinking it wasn't just to watch TV."

MJ's face is starting to flush now, but it seems to be more than embarrassment. There's something welling up within him, the way that only teenage emotions can boil over, and he's struggling to contain it, to dodge and avoid, as long as he can. His shoulders shrug, that most eloquent of teenage gestures which communicates the universe without saying anything at all, but they seem to be doing it all of their own accord, as if his body can't quite contain what's going on.

"Hey, bud, look at me." You lean into his line of sight and put one hand on his shoulder which sends him flinching back. "You can tell me anything, OK? I won't be angry, I promise. It's because I love you that I'm not letting it go."

"You wouldn't understand." His voice had changed early, dropping to a bone-rumbling baritone, but it's cracking now like a boy's. "You don't know what it's like to…to not be able to say anything and t-to feel this way for so long and you try to ignore it and you try and you _try_ but it won't go away." Tears are filling his eyes now as he repeats hoarsely, "It won't go away."

You don't care that it embarrasses him or what he thinks he wants. You half-stand, moving across the space between you to pull him to you in a fierce embrace, wrapping him in your arms as his tears soak the front of your shirt, which was never really your favorite anyway. You say everything you can think of to let him know that everything will be fine, that you'll find a way to work this out, that you love him—God you love him—and that just maybe you'll kill a few people if you need to.

"No killing," he finally mumbles into your shoulder. "Uncle Frankie would hafta arrest you."

You snort softly as you run your palm over his hair, smoothing down the perpetual cowlick. "Like he could catch me." That makes him laugh at last, a painful little hitch, and he pulls back without pulling away.

"Let's start over," you say calmly. "How'd you meet?"

"Biology class." His voice is soft, as if coming through a filter and his eyes are unfocused, looking back in time. You wonder if this is what you look like when you think back to when you first met Maura. "She just…" He shrugs, lost.

You're more confused than ever—he's not gay? Obviously it wouldn't matter, but…if this is because of a girl, then why would he feel like he had to hide that from you? Suddenly, a shock hits your gut. _Oh God…_ "Is she a teacher?"

"No!" he blurts, "That's gross, no! But she's smarter than all of them…she's a genius and beautiful and sweet and totally out of my league."

"Welcome to the club," you sigh. "OK, start over. At the beginning."

_It was the first day back at school after Christmas break. You were trying to untangle your new backpack straps from the leg of the chair next to you. You scooted forward and back until you accidentally rammed the tip of one leg down onto the toe of your sneaker and yelped—mother phooey—then stopped._

_A pair of bright aqua ballet flats were standing next to your shoes. Your Mom had exactly the same pair with lattice cutouts in bright red (and eight other colors too). Glancing up, skimming past the pleated skirt and crisp tucked in buttondown, you looked into her solemn eyes and the trap door that the universe had neatly positioned under you at the moment of your birth opened with a bang._

_You fell._

_"You're MJ," she said softly. "I don't have a partner, I'm new."_

_That was an unusual name, you thought. That was…not her name. Slowly you moved your bag off the chair next to you and it fell to the floor with a thud that echoed in your stomach._

_She had printed out the instructions ahead of time. You did whatever she suggested. After five minutes, your hands stopped shaking. Ms. Arbuckle said your results were perfect and she made everyone come by your station. You didn't care if you set yourself on fire—all you wanted was for her to smile at you again.._

_At the end of class, when you were washing up equipment and wiping down the counters, she thanked you, sudden and sweet. "If you want, we could do the lab together again next week. I looked it up already. It's about salinity. I think Ms. Arbuckle would let us pick our partners. She helped me with my class schedule when I transferred. I want to be a marine biologist. I love pinnipeds."_

_You love Ms. Arbuckle almost as much as you love Her._

_"OK?" Her looked at you hesitantly. "Unless you have someone else."_

_No. There's no one else and there never will be. You had no idea how you knew this, but you did—maybe it was some kind of genetic imprinting and Her's chromosomes were calling out to yours. You could ask Mom. Mom knew everything. She always helped when school was involved, like when you wanted to take Bass to fourth grade assembly show and tell and she had to borrow the morgue van to transport him and you got to run the lift. You also know that she got you into Woodgate Academy in the middle of the year, which never ever happened because it was an awesome school and everyone wanted to go there, after Ms. Trask at your old school gave you a C- and said you plagiarized your book report because no eleven-year-old had that kind of vocabulary. Actually, you did thanks to your Mom and you're pretty sure Ma got Ms. Trask fired too. (Ma has an amazing vocabulary that you're not allowed to use out loud until you're older—you can't wait.)_

_"No," you croaked. "I want you. To be my partner. Lab. Good." FUCK!_

_Her smiled, hugging the lab manual to herself. You want to be that manual. Then a shadow fell over you in every literal and metaphorical sense of the word. You looked up to see Ian Fletcher standing next to Her, one arm already around Her's waist. _

_"Hey." Ian gave you a quick nod, the basketball captain acknowledging a lesser athlete. Her had been at school for all of 24 hours and already been claimed. "Ready?"_

_Her nodded, gave you one last quick smile, then walked away with your heart, lungs and several other vital organs._

_You ran home to dive online and read everything you could find about pinnipeds, their scientific names, migration patterns, feeding habits. Next week on lab day, you mentioned, as if everyone knew this, that the Caribbean Monk Seal went extinct in the 1950s. Her was excited and told you there had been an inconclusive sighting of one as recently as 2008 in the Intracoastal Waterway, but you could tell Her wanted to cry too because they were all dead now. You felt like an asshole_

_A month passed. You learned how to speak to Her by not looking at her directly. Your brain got stronger, able to withstand the proximity. One day you made Her laugh and a new galaxy was born. You sent donations to PETA to stop seal hunting in Canada and got a stuffed leopard seal pup in the mail. You paid Tiffany Gentry to put it in Her's locker before mid-terms. Her thought it was from Ian. He didn't disagree._

_You snapped._

"I'm sorry, you did what?"

"I turned him in." MJ shrugs, matter of fact and not apologetic at all. "Everyone knew Ian was a juicer—those muscles, that jaw. It's one thing if you're just hurting yourself, but he was supplying and pushing other guys."

"It's too soon for me to hug you again, isn't it?"

He looks embarrassed, but his crooked grin says he'd think about it.

"Seriously, MJ, you did the right thing and where the hell…how did I not know this?" He's always been a good kid, which is why this throws you so hard. He was an easy boy, happy to keep himself occupied, and…maybe, you thought guiltily, maybe that benign neglect thing was easier to fall into than you realized.

"I did it anonymously and they found so much stuff in his locker that they didn't need me to say anything else. He got expelled," MJ adds happily.

"OK, so you're the white knight and now your crush likes you too?"

MJ gives you a look that's full of such pity that you wonder for a moment if your mother took him aside during sleepovers with her and Grandpa Sean and gave him private lessons.

"It's not a crush," he says with unexpected dignity. "We're in love. The problem is that her parents hit the roof when Ian was arrested, so her Dad's being a douche and now he won't let her date anyone until she graduates."

You remember one of Maura's gleeful expressions, _hoisted by his own petard_, and decide against using it. "So no prom?"

MJ smiled, that glorious, triumphant Rizzoli smile. "I've got a plan. Well, I did until you cancelled it. We weren't going to _do_ anything, I swear, I just wanted her to know how special she is and take her somewhere nice since she couldn't go to prom, but if we got seen, someone would talk and her folks would find out."

You believe him, you really do, but you also know how love works and when you put two combustible chemicals in that kind of proximity, there's no way to stop a reaction. Their virginity wouldn't last 30 minutes. Jesus, PETA?

"C'mon, bud. You know we trust you, but it's not OK to go behind our backs, take the card without asking and do something you knew we wouldn't approve of."

"Yeah, that's kinda why I didn't ask."

Somewhere across town, Angela Rizzoli's soul is mysteriously alight with joy now that all her prayers have come true—your son is putting you through the hell you gave her.

"You wouldn't be a Rizzoli if you hadn't tried," you acknowledge, "but her parents have a right to be concerned until they get to know you. Maybe we can meet her at something for school. Have you got a picture?"

MJ carefully digs out his phone, cupping the display in one hand as he navigates to a folder, hesitates, then hands it over. You lose your breath in a long slow exhale.

When Constance had passed away last year, peacefully and at home with family, you had spent a good two weeks with Maura going through the house and ordering it for inventory. You had found an old photo album in the library and sat cross-legged in the middle of the worn Persian rug as the album sent you spinning back in time to Maura as a toddler in a Gucci pinafore, Maura at her first equestrian competition in jodhpurs and bullfinch, Maura winning more science fairs than you had thought could possibly exist, Maura with baby Bass cradled on the palm of her hand.

Somehow, you have no idea how, one of those photos had escaped the album and wound up in your son's phone. Dark blonde hair in soft waves, the bright Isles hazel eyes, an aristocratic nose, and a gentle, inquisitive, bright smile. She was just on the cusp of gorgeous and utterly unaware of herself as she gazed up in pure adoration at the camera.

At your son.

"Jesus," you whisper with respect. It wasn't his fault—poor kid, his first at bat was the World Series, bottom of the 9th for all the marbles.

For a moment you think guiltily of all the pictures that had been taken while Maura was pregnant and how you had cropped them at the time, focusing only on the baby, but you had still saved the originals in a folder and looked at them sometimes, wondering why you felt so sad and confused to see yourself with Maura (because you are, admittedly, a moron at times). After MJ was born, after you pulled your head out of your ass, you went back and printed every single one and Angela made nine scrapbooks. This would be the very first one in MJ's collection.

"What's her name?"

MJ swallows so hard that his Adam's apple bobs down to his clavicle and back. "Juliet," he says softly. "Juliet Echolls." Or Juliet Rizzoli, you think. That would be a good name. Both his elbows are on the table now and you can see he's just a moment away from burying his head in his hands. "Seriously, Ma? Darren Echolls?"

All the air leaves your body and the phone slips from your fingers to the tabletop with a clunk that echoes your heart. "Daughter?" you croak.

"Niece."

43% of the air comes back. It's enough to breathe, but not enough to wipe away the image of Echolls' leering face as he lunged for you in the courtroom; the smell of deco that had hit you when you opened the storage locker and saw the neatly posed heads and hands; the crushing pain as your left eardrum imploded when the gun went off inches from your head but it was Frost who went down; the sight of the sticky blood that was everywhere—in your clothes, your shoes, your hair—but you didn't go home to shower until he was out of surgery.

No, it's not enough oxygen to let you solve complex math problems, but it's enough to keep you conscious and upright. Your son and the niece of your final arrest for BPD, the serial killer who still writes you letters once a month. Dear God, did the universe know how to pick 'em.

You lean forward and carefully take your son's hands in yours, willing him to breathe. "I want you to listen to me, MJ. I appreciate that you care about me and your Mom and your Uncle Barry, but that bastard is not going to touch our family like that. Her name may be Juliet, but you're not Romeo." You remember the brother now, how he had cooperated, the anger and betrayal on his face as he testified for the prosecution but he could never meet your eyes. "Do you know what Osama bin Laden's cousin said when they interviewed him?" MJ shook his head. "There's one in every family."

He tries not to laugh but you're both punchy and shaky with the emotional release. The laughter does you both good and you let it roll through your muscles loosening them as it passes.

"I'm sorry, bud, I know you were freaked, but it's going to be OK. I mean, between your Uncle Tommy and Grandpa Paddy, you're not exactly spotless. Just, uh, make sure she keeps the dissecting to the biology lab?"

"Yes—yes, absolutely." MJ is quick and emphatic, pouncing on the word like a loose ball in play. "That's why she switched schools—because people were giving her a hard time, but she's not like that. She wants to study pinnipeds!"

You stand, unexpectedly creaky, and walk to the refrigerator, lingering long enough to look up _pinniped_ on your phone and sigh with relief, then return with two beers. Solemnly, you hand one to MJ who hesitates as if this is a test.

"It's like…nine a.m.," he blurts. "And I'm only…"

"Look, if I need one, God knows you do." The way he downs three swallows tells you that you were right and also that this isn't the first beer he's sneaked from the fridge but that's the least of your worries. He's earned it after what he's put himself through, thinking he had to protect you.

"Now, we'll probably want to ease into things with her folks. I know you're not happy with her father, but he's not being a douche—he's being a Dad. If you really care about her, it won't kill you to wait a couple months to take her out. Work on being friends, really get to know her."

MJ starts to tighten up again. "She's going away. She got into Havenhurst and I'm stuck here at BCU."

He says the letters with a bitterness that's visceral and unexpected. He had wanted to go there ever since he learned they had a top lacrosse team and that Maura had gone there. You have a picture clipped to the sun visor of your car that had been taken of the two of you at the fountain last year when he visited for early recruitment day, both of you in matching BCU t-shirts and grinning like idiots.

"BCU is a great school," you remind him. "You should be proud of that."

"But she's not going there." He measured out each word with equal weight, dropping them as if you need to have them repeated very slowly for comprehension. "She's going to Havenhurst."

"OK, so you visit."

"It's in San Francisco."

"At Christmas," you finish lamely.

"She offered to stay here." His voice is so soft that you can barely catch the words. "She…she said she'd give up her scholarship and get some local classes for a semester and then transfer to BCU. They don't have a pinniped program," he says morosely. "So I told her to no, that she had to go because that's what Mom says you do when you love someone, that you do what's best for them no matter how it makes you feel, and now she's gonna be on her own. She doesn't know anyone there and she's so nice she believes anything anyone tells her and she won't have anyone to watch out for her, not like I can, and what if someone finds out about her uncle or she gets lost trying to find a coffee shop—she can't find her way out of a map store—or if one of the seals gets sick or if…"

Yes, you thought as he rattled on. That was exactly how Maura loved you. She thought you needed to marry Casey and she let you. She knew you would die without her, so she stayed. She gave you a child without any thought that it would make you love her in return. You didn't deserve her—she was so far beyond you, utterly in a league of her own—and now by some cosmic, karmic miracle your son was going down the same road, but there was a chance here, just a chance, that you could straighten his path, let him bypass the Hoyts, the Ians and the Garrets, to let him go directly to the arms of the one person who could make his world safe and sane.

You could save him before he was lost. There had to be a way.

You sent a text to Maura with your emergency code word, asking her to drop everything and call back. The phone rang less than 30 seconds later and you walked it into the kitchen where you could watch MJ from a safe distance.

"Is everything all right?"

The answer to that would, of course, be _no_—you wouldn't have used the code for anything less than a crisis, but you find that you don't know how to begin to explain. "Have you ever heard of Havenhurst?"

"Yes, it's an excellent institution—on par with the best Ivy League schools. They have a marine science program that's…"

"Yeah, pinnipeds, whatever. Do you think MJ would have a shot at getting in?" You close your eyes as you ask, wincing in preparation for her brutally honest response. Maura still hasn't quite mastered the art of the gentle evaluation.

"Maybe if he was interested in gender reassignment."

"What?"

"It's an all girl's school."

"Shit." You sigh, pressing into your temple with one thumb to try to relieve the stress headache building. "We may have a problem."

You walk back to the dining room and MJ looks up at you with the same look you must have given the guy who sold you Maura's wedding ring. You've kept your phone open and turn the screen out to him. "I've never shown you this picture."

He leans forward, looking at it respectfully but not understanding. "What's up with Mom's hair?"

"Show some respect," you chuckle. "She just spent eleven hours and seventeen minutes in labor. Vidal Sassoon wasn't available. Does it remind you of anyone?" Slowly he nods. Hair aside, it's a nearly perfect match for Juliet. "That's the night it all started, the night I gave my heart away."

"Yeah, I get it," he says glumly, "you love Mom, you get to be together."

"I wasn't talking about her. Having a kid is like taking your heart out of your chest, giving it legs and letting it run around out in the big world. I love you, MJ, and I would do anything to protect you and give you everything you need, and what it sounds like is…it sounds like you love this girl."

He looks up at you, sudden, wild and hopeful. "So we can…"

"No," you said flatly. "You don't get to make her break her parents' rules and sneak around, even if it is a nice hotel. You don't superglue yourself to something just before you have to give it away, and that's what it's like, MJ, when it's the right person—you're talking about the most precious thing you can share with someone else and it needs to happen at the right time." You stops short of saying _be careful_, because there's no such thing as being careful with your heart when you're in love the way he is, and you should know.

"But," you continue and his eyes leap back to yours, "you do get a chance at finding out if you really belong together, so get your game bag and put a couple days stuff in, plus your suit. Your mother will be here in half an hour and we have to be ready."

Emotions are whirling across his face—dejection, hope, resentment, confusion... "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Mom's on the phone right now with the registrar at Reedson. That's the boy's school one town over from Havenhurst and the dean's expecting us for dinner tomorrow."

"W-what?" he chokes.

"Turns out the Isles family had more money than they knew what to do with and your Grandmother Constance owns their souls from beyond the grave, so if you want to go there, you can go." Maura had called it a _legacy_, the unofficial understanding that they had to make accommodation for someone from a benefactor's family, but all you could do was stare open mouthed at the picture she had texted of the massive granite building with _Isles Hall_ chiseled on the edifice. "Oh yeah, they started a lacrosse team last year and they suck so you've got your work cut out for you. You interested?"

You blink. Your son isgone, vanished, halfway down the hall, tearing open the suitcase closet.

You look down at your phone, gently running your thumb over the picture there—Maura, still glowing, tousled and tired from labor, you an elated, panicked wreck. Her eyes are closed as you kiss her for the very first time and there's the faintest hesitation in her face as if she can't quite believe this is happening. It was the last time she ever doubted your love. You've spent every day of the last 17 years proving it again and again, providing her with the family she'd never had, devoting your heart, your soul, and giving her anything she wants. She will always deserve more but it's a good game and you intend to win.

You dial.

"Hello, Four Seasons? Yeah, we're flying in from Boston tonight and I need a two rooms. A twin and do you have a suite—something non-smoking, king, jacuzzi? That would be great. What about a honeymoon package, champagne, the works? Yes, roses, definitely, but just four. Yeah, long story. Can I get a card on them? Put this…"

You listen as the concierge repeats your message back to you. "Perfect. Now sign it 'Mrs. Isles'."

Game on.

The End

A/N: Despite managing to get sent out on assignment on our anniversary (again), Spousal Unit gets special inspiration credit for having 14 years ago this week delivered the immortal lines: "Baby, we don't have to do anything just because we're alone and married. I'm happy just holding you. Are...are you OK? Oh no, don't cry, please don't cry. Did I say something right? I did? Uh...what was it?"

Special thanks also to everyone on Tumblr who followed, commented and supported until we got this thing birthed.


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